The best dog obit ever: the death of Sugar Bobo

Earlier this week the Chronicle’s Steve Rubenstein wrote an obituary for his family’s dog. It was poignant, funny and sad. Exactly, in others words, the kind of deft writing you’d expect from Rube, who has an advanced degree in wordsmithing.

Stories like that are not easy to write, because they can easily slip into the schmaltzy. A few years ago I tried one, too, with mixed success.

But all of this reminds me of the best dog obituary I ever read: The Death of Sugar Bobo.

It was written by my mentor and former editor, Frank Boggs, a funny guy and talented writer. Although that’s not what I thought when we first met.

A group of us young guys were writing sports at a small paper in Colorado Springs when it was purchased by the Oklahoma Publishing Co. And, they said, they were bringing in a guy, well known in Oklahoma, to run the sports department.

We were skeptical. Frank was older than we were — I mean really old, like 40 — and he had an Oklahoma drawl. He wore pressed shirts and dress pants and had taps on the heels of his shoes. None of us had any of those. Which made us even more skeptical.

Which just goes to show that there are times to trust your gut and times to shut up and get to know someone. Frank first impressed us with his good judgment, then his experience and, most importantly, with his writing. His copy was a mixture of smart ass and insight. He came up with stuff I never thought of and not only made it readable, but funny.

The Death of Sugar Bobo won everyone over. We still talk about it.

The story is goes like this (and I hope I get this right): Sugar Bobo was a dachshund who belonged to friends of Frank and his wife, Luan. On some evenings they’d go over to Sugar Bobo’s owners’ house for dinner. Perhaps some drinks would be tossed back.

And at some point, it was time. The owner would pick up Sugar Bobo, tuck his little legs under him, and wrap him in a bath towel, so tightly that he couldn’t move. Sugar Bobo, by the way, was fine with this. All part of the job.

And then, the owner would carry him over to the couch and wedge him in-between two cushions so only Sugar Bobo’s head was sticking out. Again, he was fine, just biding his time for the big moment.

At that point the owner would go over to the back door, hold it open and say in a loud voice: “Well look, there’s a big fat kitty cat out there in the backyard.”

What? A kitty cat? Sugar Bobo was incensed. He furiously struggled to free himself from the towel, growling ferociously the entire time. He’d shake off the towel and struggle his way out of the couch. When he hit the floor he was a blur, a deeply offended wiener dog.

Sugar Bobo would sprint through the door, then clatter to a stop on the back porch, where he could see the entire backyard. He would angrily look from side to side, trying to locate the trespasser, while unleashing his most intimidating bark, a sharp, high-pitched yap.

This went on for a few minutes and then, mission accomplished, Sugar Bobo would trot back into the room, head high, claws clicking on the floor, to accept fawning congratulations from everyone in the room.

So it was a sad day when Frank got the word that Sugar Bobo had passed away. He wrote up the obit, better than this but with the same details, and then he added a classic Frank kicker.

“Sugar Bobo knew there wasn’t any kitty cat out there,” Frank said. “He just did it to make us happy.”